Rejoice with me, I have beaten psoriasis. There’s this trick I have of not watching the news. Most things don’t happen and there’s been some debate internally about the order of events. I keep losing things and the obvious answer is that they've been stolen!  But the investigation is finished—it is what it is. A black government helicopter is circling and I’m just reading my big heavy book like that’s just a ceiling fan. Our neighbors behind the house, across the gulch, have been growing marijuana. I wonder what for. A family of foxes is our other neighbor.  Is there some apophenia going on here? Doot-dee-do.

What I do is ok, but it’s never been prize winning. I saw my boss jogging and it ruined my whole curbside morning, she further excels. The obvious solution to my mysteries is the ouija board. I believe deeply in Grace, but she cannot tell the future or reveal what is hidden spiritually. The device is with the baseball bat under the bed.

Today gets better or worse. I can be sensitive and still like football. I can use my turn signal and still be a punk at heart. All this smoke? It’s from Grace making simple syrup for the hummingbirds.

What if someone did this to you? Scooped you out of your leaking tank and put you in a cup on the counter? Threw out your old tank but put you in a new one with all the same decorations? This is a little like recovery and exactly like what I did to one of my fish. True or not true: there is a world you live in, but have very little awareness of?

This ouija board is made by Milton Bradley. When Grace plays with me, she pulls on the planchette, and towards “good bye.” Gabe pushes on the planchette, and towards spelling “Satan.” Use of the board by oneself is not recommended, mainly because of a dearth of energy. We’re talking an extra twenty to thirty minutes.